


lend your sons, lend your daughters

by greekphilosophress



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, dont make it gross, in the normal way, its a FUN CUTE WHOLESOME BROTHER AND SISTER DYNAMIC I SWEAR, not in the cersei and jaime way, they very much are like siblings, this is not a gross thing i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:49:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28668018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greekphilosophress/pseuds/greekphilosophress
Summary: i just think that theon and arya being friends would be neat :)
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy & Arya Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	lend your sons, lend your daughters

**Author's Note:**

> i just think their sibling dynamic would be fantastic thank you for indulging me

“But  _ why _ ?”

“Arya, I told you!  _ Ladies don’t play with swords _ .” Septa Mordane was angry with her. Septa Mordane always seemed to be angry with her. She was never wroth with  _ Sansa _ , though. Just because Arya didn’t want to be a  _ stupid lady _ she was always being punished.

“But Jon and Robb and Theon and even  _ Bran _ can practice at swords! If Bran can use a sword so can I.” The Septa shook her head and sighed, lips pinched thin. “You know it’s different, Arya.” Arya knew it was different, sure, but she didn’t know  _ why _ it was different. No one ever told her why, only that she was to be a lady and not a knight and it wasn’t  _ fair _ .

Later, during her needlepoint lessons, she stabbed her thumb with a needle and smeared blood all over the flowers she had been stitching. According to Septa Mordane, it wasn’t salvageable. Arya couldn’t help but be wickedly pleased. Sansa and Jeyne had tittered and the Septa had pursed her lips and blood dried on yellow thread blossoms, but outside all she could hear was a sword hammering down on a shield, over and over.

\----------------------------------------

The air outside was crisp and chill, the ground hard beneath her feet, the fringe of her warm wool cloak snapping gently in the wind. The training yard was deserted, most of Winterfell would be abed by now, she had wagered. The looming shapes of the stone towers were foreign in the dark, but Arya wasn’t afraid.

Quietly, she stole across the yard, slipping into the armory. Rows and rows of swords greeted her, as well as an assortment of other weapons. Racks of daggers and knives, separate ones for maces and morningstars. Bows and quivers hung upon the rough stone walls.

She headed straight to the swords, considering each one carefully. To be completely honest with herself, she had no idea which one to choose. Some were the length of her arm twice over, some were wide and blunted, some tapered wicked-sharp.

Arya finally decided on one with a soft leather grip, the blade gleaming silver in the faint moonlight that reached with soft fingers through the cracked door. She retraced her steps, turning before she could re-enter the castle. 

She took her prize and stood near the archery range, straw-stuffed men and painted wooden posts tucked out of the way, and thus out of sight. 

Arya set her sights on one of the dummies. Hefting the sword in her left hand, she tried to hit it in the ribs. Her swing went wide and the momentum carried her around in a circle, where it eventually bit into the dirt. 

She huffed and lifted it again, this time trying to hold on with both hands. She cut higher towards the heart, but it nicked a tiny rip in the vague suggestion of a shoulder, and almost to rub salt in the wound, a few pieces of straw half-heartedly fell to the ground. She swore, forgetting herself for a moment, when…

“You’re holding it wrong.” She whirled around, heart pounding. 

Theon Greyjoy was leaning against a target, bow in hand. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “What are you doing here?” He grinned, and patted the quiver where it rested against his hip. “Practicing. I could ask the same of you, little lady.” She glared at him, decidedly done with Theon and whatever he wanted.

“Also, that sword is definitely too long for you. It’s a wonder you didn’t shear your arm off.” She rolled her eyes in indignance. “I wouldn’t!” He smirked, bemused. “If you insist.”

She groaned, throwing the blade down. “Why are you practicing archery in the dark, anyway? Don’t you need to… see?” He smiled and drew out an arrow, raising the bow and nocking it. “I like the challenge.” The soft thrum of a taut string heralded the arrows’ coming, slamming into the neck of the stuffed man Arya had been attempting to savage.

Despite herself, she was impressed. “How did you learn to shoot like that?” She asked. He stilled for a small moment, then turned his head to look at her. “I may have learned a bit when I was a boy, but I mostly taught myself. Ser Rodrick is more swordsman than archer, I must admit.” 

She couldn’t help herself.

“Could you teach me?” He gave a small, startled laugh. “Your lady mother would murder me, Arya. Not to  _ mention _ Robb.” She pleaded again, “They don’t have to know! Please? I can’t teach myself to fight on my own!” He gave her a strange look.

“Why would you need to fight? You’re a highborn lady with men all around to protect you.” She shook her head fiercely. “But I want to be able to protect myself! I know that if someone taught me I could be just as good as any boy.” He smiled at her, then. 

Theon Greyjoy was always smiling. He laughed and grinned and joked, but none of it was real. That smile, though. That, she could tell, was real.”

“You… remind me of someone.” When she kept looking at him imploringly, he sighed fondly and began the walk back to the armory. “Fine. Just stay here, I’m going to get a smaller bow. Don’t you move.”

It was maybe five minutes later when he returned, wiping dust off of the tiniest bow Arya had ever seen. “I had to go digging for this one, I don’t know if it was ever used. Or who it was made for, for that matter.” He passed it to her. She ran her fingers over the smooth wood, pausing when she felt a blemish on the surface. She turned it up towards the moonlight so she could inspect it.

It was an engraving of three winter roses, painted blue. The coloring had faded over what was presumably years of no use, but she could make out the delicate swirls carved into the shiny wood. 

She thought it was maybe the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. 

“Do you want to learn how to shoot it or are you going to stare at it all night?” She was snapped out of her reverie by Theon, calling from the other end of the yard. She hurried over to him, where he was occupying the space in front of a wooden target.

“Ok, before you shoot anything you need to take your stance. Face your left or… what hand do you use for writing?” She raised her left hand and waggled her fingers. “Alright then, face the target with your right shoulder. Plant your feet, and turn your head with your shoulder. Good, that’s good.”

He adjusted her grip on the bow and showed her how to draw it back, not releasing all the way. “You don’t want to fire empty. Some believe it’s bad luck, but  _ really _ it just breaks your strings faster.” She was taking furious mental notes. Arya never had a chance to learn like this, and she was determined to absorb as much information as she could. 

He taught her how to nock an arrow, and when she was situated, he began talking again. “When you fire, your bow is a part of you. When you breathe out, you breathe with the arrow. Feel the way your fingers flex around the wood. Feel where they connect. The bow is you and the arrow is you. It’s like making a fist. Simple as thought. You are in control.”

He had her draw back, pulling towards her ear. Her pulse was thrumming in her head, her feet solid and her body strong and pliable, like a willow branch. 

“Now, breathe out.” 

She had been aiming for the heart, but the arrow caught the dummy in the upper shoulder. Her stance crumbled as she pumped a triumphant fist in the air, stomping her foot on the earth. “I did it! I hit it! Theon, did you see?” He had a strange gleam in his eye.

“Yeah, Arya. I saw. You did great.” She smiled and held out her hand for an arrow. “Again?”

She missed this time, but knowing that she had one it before meant that she wasn’t frustrated. It took another five off-center and missed shots before she struck where the heart would be, dead on. She whooped, forgetting that she had snuck out and was in fact, not allowed to be shooting arrows during the middle of the night with Theon Greyjoy.

The ward in question had come up next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. Something a little like pride in his dark eyes. “I think we’ll make a fighter of you yet.” She beamed up at him, and he was smiling back.


End file.
